


consider your best friend's mouth (in your defense, two and two aren't always four)

by amorremanet



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Anorexia (purging subtype), Autistic Character, Autistic Scott McCall, Begging, Best Friends in Love, Clinging, Desperation, Eating Disorders, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Hurt Scott, Hurt Stiles, I swear to God this was porn when I started it, Kissing, M/M, Mutual Pining, Neediness, Needy Scott, Neurodiversity, Oblivious, Oblivious Scott, Originally Posted on Tumblr, POV Scott McCall, POV Second Person, Pining, Pining Scott, Poetry, Prose Poem, Self Harm, Suicidal Scott McCall, Suicidal Thoughts, Werewolf Senses, You Are Jeff, needy Stiles, oblivious to love, richard siken, riding in cars with beautiful boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 23:26:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1323184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorremanet/pseuds/amorremanet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>You’re in a car with a beautiful boy and it’s not the first time, except that in a way, it kind of is.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	consider your best friend's mouth (in your defense, two and two aren't always four)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [solvecoagula](https://archiveofourown.org/users/solvecoagula/gifts).



> Originally posted on tumblr [here](http://amorremanet.tumblr.com/post/79744285420/youre-in-a-car-with-a-beautiful-boy-and-you).

You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and you won’t tell him that you love him but you love him. But, thing is, here? The car’s a squad car. It’s his father’s squad car and it stinks like stale citrus air freshener spray and underneath of that, the curly fries and onion rings that the Sheriff’s not supposed to eat and the dirt and sweat and grime from the last person he dragged in before you.

You’re in a car and you can hear your best friend’s heart pounding harder than it should ever pound in a situation that you two have stared down more than enough times by now. You stopped counting how many times you’ve been in this position back in seventh grade when the clerk down at the Walgreens called the Sheriff up over the two of you trying to buy a suspicious amount of toilet paper with the pilfered credit card Stiles had taken from his wallet earlier. And when the Sheriff met you at the Manager’s office and hauled you both out to the the squad car by your collars, something cold dropped down into the pit of your stomach, all heavy and writhing and twisting and sick, as Stiles said,  _hey, in our defense, it’s not like Jackson’s parents can’t just pay someone to clean it up_.

You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and it’s not like this is new for you. But his heart hits the insides of his chest like an unwanted baseball hits a window in retaliation for his Great Aunt Agnes still pushing baseball on him when he still hates the game more than any other sport. It throbs like a headache that you can’t get rid of and it races like doing suicide runs and when he looks at you, his jaw goes tight and his fingernails dig into his palm and you can see the way his cheeks drain out to moonlight pale because the full is only two day off and enough light filters through the branches and the window that you could see it clearly even if you weren’t a wolf.

You’re in a car with a beautiful boy and you’ve been in this exact position so many different times before but somehow, something’s different about this one. Some inexplicable something or other that you don’t have the words for lingers thick molasses heavy in the air between his face and yours, and when you gently squeeze his wrist, his whole hand tenses up like an electric shock. This only serves to drive his nails deeper down into his palm. Except he winces, because he didn’t mean for that to happen, so you whisper,  _sssh_  and use your other hand to guide him out of holding himself quite like that and curl your fingers up around his, keeping the nails hidden from his skin.

You’re in a car with a beautiful boy and it’s not the first time, except that in a way, it kind of is. It kind of is because this hasn’t happened since something stole his mind and body. And you feel like maybe that’s what’s lingering unsaid between the two of you, or anyway it’s the most important of the unsaid things. Maybe that’s why the air in here is clotted up like triple-bypass arteries or like the way your throat gets every time you look at him and think his smile is part-way back to what it used to look like.

(It won’t get back there, and you know it won’t, and you think that you can live with that. You just can’t live with the thought of him never smiling again ever. And you won’t tell him that you love him, but you love him. And that can’t be the real thing that no one’s saying because why would it be. It’s not like it’s important. It’s definitely not strong enough to jell the atoms all around you up into the suffocating paste you’ve got right now instead of oxygen.)

You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won’t look up from your fingers around his but he’s shaking and that might be why. And you feel the same cold and twisting wormy feeling in the pit of your stomach that you had when your Dad had leaving on his mind and you could tell more certainly than anything that he didn’t want to stay. And you squeeze your best friend brother’s hand again, gently because clinging like you want might scare him off, might expose the Marianas cracks in your veneer and cast new light on the things about you he already knows, and this could make him pull a runner. This could make him rip the rug out from under your entire life because he sees the truth of how he lied once without meaning to because he doesn’t need you after all.

You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, watching him tremble as he watches your hand curl around his, as he watches your thumb brush against his knuckles of its own accord. And right here, right now, you could just fucking puke all over this beautiful boy and the mausoleum car you’re fucking trapped in. Whatever’s twisting in your stomach digs its claws in harder because you aren’t supposed to have these thoughts, not anymore, not after promising him that the motel meant nothing and the skipped meals meant nothing and the times he caught you throwing up meant nothing, not even the time he literally found you gagging on a toothbrush because you didn’t want to risk your claws slipping out with your fingers prodding at the inside of your throat.

You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and nothing else exists outside this car, except the thicket that you want to go throw up in. You’ve been good but you can’t last and listening to the hideous Poesque beating of his telltale heart makes you want to dig up your own grave if you could get away with it. Since you probably can’t, though, you’ll be fine with retching somewhere quiet. Emptying everything from food to bile to stomach acid and finally the leaden pulsing thing that sits where your own heart should be. Because his heart keeps pounding and his ears flush red and when he swallows and tongues at his lips, his Adam’s apple bobs and agitates his skin, and it all spells out that he probably wishes that you’d just go away and stay there.

You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and his whole mouth shudders as he turns his brown eyes up to lock on yours. And he licks his cracking lips even though you’ve lost count of how many times you’ve told him he should just use chapstick. And you know what’s coming once he sighs and drags his tongue along his teeth. Except you don’t because he’s going to tell you to fuck off out of his entire life already and instead, he says absolutely nothing. He just throws himself forward harder than he’s ever thrown anything and your head starts to blur from spinning like it does because his lips crash into yours and you let go of his hand and you twine your fingers up into his messy hair like holding fast to that will keep him here, will convince him not to banish you, will make him hear the way your own heart beats out,  _please don’t leave me, please don’t make me go away, please don’t do that, please, I love you_.

You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and you’re kissing him like your entire life depends on it because it does. But the air already seems half-lighter and your lungs fight with you less about inhaling it, especially when it tastes like him. And his hands curl up around the back of your neck because he’s holding on to you the way you’re holding on to him, and he’s breathing you even as you’re breathing him, and this is the first time that it means something when you’re kissing and you hate yourself and you hate him because neither one of you put two and two together and got four until right this very second. Other people would die or kill to have this kind of thing and you ignored it, even as your veins burn so loud and so white hot from finally having it dredged up into the foreground, from finally having your tongue inside his mouth and then your lip caught between his teeth.

You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell you that he loves you but he loves you. And you know that’s what he really means when he pulls back, gasping for a breath that hits his lungs and bumps his forehead gently into yours and drags his thumb along your cheek and whispers,  _please don’t kill yourself tonight, okay? we have to do that one more time, at least._


End file.
